The Secret Adoption

Copyright © 2011 by Thomas F. Liotti.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9556-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9558-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9557-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/09/2011

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Acknowledgments

Chapter I

Finding a Home

Lullaby In Blue

Chapter II

Making Of Middle America

Chapter III

Looking For More

Chapter IV

The Nuns

Chapter V

Hardball And Learning To Steal Home

Chapter VI

Finding My Niche In Sports

Chapter VII

First Breakthrough Into The Big Time

Chapter VIII

The Road To Excellence

Chapter IX

Working Harder Than Anyone

To Reach The Goal

Chapter X

Eye On The Olympics

Chapter XI

Three And One Half Yards And

A Cloud Of Dust

Chapter XII

Goodbye Columbus

Chapter XIII

Coming Back

Chapter XIV

Political Awareness

Chapter XV

After Sports—Segue To Reality

Chapter XVI

The Tools For Reform

Chapter XVII

Down But Never Out—Stepping Up

Chapter XVIII

No Office, No Clients,

No Money But An Attorney

Chapter XIX

Battling At The Bar

Chapter XX

To Judge

Chapter XXI

The Adoption Secret

Chapter XXII

The Search

Chapter XXIII

Ethnic Pride

Chapter XXIV

At Least One Sibling

Chapter XXV

A Lawyer’s Work

Chapter XXVI

Discoveries

Chapter XXVII

Epilogue

Endnotes

Richie Havens

Appendix

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the only parents I ever knew, Louis J. (March 22, 1917 to April 2, 2008) and Eileen F. Liotti (August 8, 1920 to August 12, 2008). In life and death, love trumps all other emotions. The legacy which my parents gave to me is the unremitting love which they had for me and for each other. They were totally devoted to me and to each other, two extraordinary people who gave me everything they had. Their unselfish love is more powerful than the memory of anyone in history, any statesman, writer, warrior or rock star. It lives on in me and will exist for all of eternity. While none of us can truly know what awaits us after death, my father always had a spiritual connection to life after death as we know it. He would say: Always have faith, it is the greatest thing. He meant that we should have faith in God, but he also meant that we should just have faith, in ourselves, in all others and in the fact that life is too great an experience to simply end when the physical body gives way. While I could never quite logically or fully accept the existence of a god, I did appreciate my father’s awesome faith and it by itself has, throughout my life, given me pause to reconsider my beliefs. Even if he was wrong about the ultimate fact of the existence of God, there can be no doubt that his faith gave more meaning to his life and made it better. His belief in a broader context that all things are possible if you have faith is a concept that I accept. As Claude M. Bristol wrote in his book The Magic of Believing (Simon & Schuster,1948), the power of positive thinking can never be underestimated. That energy, which my father had and which I have, does not die. So, my father was right. Faith, in that sense, really is the most important thing, and thanks to him, I believe. I have hope. I can still dream the dreams. This book is an attempt to pass along his profound message to others, faith on multiple levels. I am very proud and honored to have lived with and been raised and cared for by two people who dedicated their lives to me and loved me as much as they did.

We find solace in acknowledging the gifts of love given by those who loved us. If you believe, then that message may be received by them. Who can say that it will not be? In that sense, it is better to believe, and I do.

Even today as I visit their grave sites at Holy Rood Cemetery not far from my home in Westbury, I sit quietly pondering the mysteries of life and death, wondering whether I shall ever see them again and if so, in what context, in what form. Is this it? Is this all there is? I do not have faith but I do have hope. One day I may have both. I sit before them in search of these answers, remembering what my father said: The most important thing is to always have faith. I respect his wisdom, his experience and his faith. They strongly suggest that I should have faith. His words pull at my conscience. It is not blind faith because of his great love for me and the secrets which are revealed in this book and which he kept for more than ninety years of his life.

My parents deserved this dedication and more. They died having faith that they will be reunited with each other and me. I do not have their faith yet, but I do not reject it either. In part, this book is the story of a search for facts relative to my own creation, but it is also about a search for the mysteries of life and death, a search for higher meaning and answers to questions which may be eternally metaphysical and existential. If there are answers, this is my attempt to find them. This is not a hopeless search and that is what I believe.

Mom and Dad at Dinner Dance

Preface

The writing of this book has not been easy. While the memories are fresh in my mind, I was conflicted emotionally as to whether this story should be told at all and what benefit, if any, might be derived from it. I conferred with my father about this book prior to his death and he urged me to write it. He thought it would be good for me because many parents would identify with it. In all likelihood this book would not have been written without his consent. My mother at the time that I discussed this with my father, had advanced Alzheimer’s and was incapable of consent. She no longer recognized me; had little cognition and had lost her ability to walk and even chew. Alzheimer’s has been described as a Long Goodbye. That is true but in its advanced stages the Long Goodbye is not perceived by the recipient. Their quality of life is zero. They barely exist. They linger because their savings, insurance providers, Medicare and Medicaid allow for it. With each passing day I realized that Dr. Kevorkian has been right. The lives of many are needlessly prolonged by a health care, assisted living and nursing home industry that thrives on the deteriorating physical and mental health of many. In many cases, there is no hope of recovery or a better life so each day they are propped up, dressed, washed, fed and wheeled about by aides. Science and pharmacological advances can keep them alive for years in these miserable, zombie-like states, long past any productivity. This makes no sense.

On another level I did not want this book to be just factual. I wanted it to have a personal touch. That means honesty which can be both self-destructive and cruel. But it also requires a degree of faith in those who may read this book. While the book is dedicated to my parents there may be many others who will identify with what I have written. I have endeavored to be truthful but this is not an Act of Contrition. It is written for those who may read it. It is written for those from what Tom Brokaw has referred to as the Greatest Generation,¹ still alive and able to read or have it read to them; or those just after them in the next generations who were influenced by all that their parents accomplished during their lives, many long and some, regretfully short-lived. I hope that the book will instill a sense of pride in those reading it.

This book is also written for my children because they must one day look at my life and determine what meaning it has for them. In order for them to do that I must first crystallize in this book what meaning my life has for me, the lessons I have learned and whether they may be meaningful to others. I believe that most writers have that as a mission. It is not just about telling a story, it is about much more.

Writers must put themselves on the line each day if they have a love affair with their readers. In that sense, writing becomes an act of self-sacrifice where we give of ourselves, the events of our lives, our inner pain in order to help others through comparable situations. Life only has meaning if we derive and others derive meaning from it.

Most thinking people spend their lives searching for their true identity and the meaning of their lives. Some philosophers such as Rene Descartes have even questioned our very existence (Cogito ergo sum, I am thinking, therefore I exist"). This is a book searching for the inner self, myself. It is a book that examines the heart, the mind, the body and the gene pool which makes up each of us. There is the environment in which we were raised which gives us either stability or no foundation. Parents can give life but perhaps what is more significant is what they do with that life once it exists. This is a book that examines the influence that my parents had on me but then how that influence, later in life, transposed so that the foundation I was given would be given back to them. This is a book that focuses on the inner strengths of parents and children as they grow older when coping skills are tested and when the identity of self which you long ago believed that you had discovered, is shattered and you are forced to rediscover yourself for better or worse.

In a sense each of us goes through life experiences, challenges and crises which we can either learn from or choose to try and forget. I am choosing to find meaning from what is revealed in this book. It is more than a personal test while it is that as well. I write in the present tense because the mental and emotional challenge which I was forced to confront later in my life, is ongoing. It will continue after I am gone because the questions which I have been able to distill and the answers which I have been able to find are not enough. In a way, how I run the rest of my life is part of the answer but my perceptions of what occurred during my life and caused me to reach certain realizations about the present and even the future, is both reassuring and unsettling. But it does present a challenge for others who choose to accept it, to examine the present and the future for the connecting points that make us one. We are after all bits and pieces of a space which we currently call a universe. We have energy which some use to accelerate through life like meteors while others act like stars, fixed in their positions, some brighter than others, some distant and some close.

Each of us is confronted by the terrifying thought that death maybe final, that this is it, that we may never again see each other and that all we have are the dim memories of those we once knew. It is not a search for life that causes us to agonize over the unanswerable, the metaphysical. Rather, it is the question of how life begins, how it ends or if it does, and how these extremes are connected by what transpires in the middle, life itself.

The moment we are born we are moving toward what we call death. We spend our lives building the best lives that we can for ourselves and our offspring. That is all we know. Any other alternative is to give up. I am by no means giving up. Each generation moves a little closer to the answers to the questions which the last generation could not answer. In a cosmic sense, if we ever find those answers then these may be something called the end of the world as we know it since the meaning of life and death will be discovered. Until then we have the hope that those discoveries will either be made by us or forced upon us by nature or perhaps even supernatural events. That is the task of each generation, to search for those answers which may then unlock the door to those ultimate secrets. That is a duty that each of us has to all others, living and dead.

Coping with death, especially dealing with the death of both my parents within four months is hard, but I found solace in several things. First, while the separation, the alienation or the loss as many kept saying is difficult, I have come to accept that there is great hope that death is not final, that there may be life after death as we know it; that the spirit or energy force may move on, in an altered state and perhaps not to a heaven or hell. While I cannot fully accept the idea of reincarnation² any more than I can the belief in heaven or hell without hard evidence which, of course, is not available, nonetheless it and even cloning suggests that we may be immortal. That is an exhilarating prospect where faith combined with inquiry may one day bring us the ultimate answers to these vexing questions.

The search for your inner self does not provide answers to these monumental questions. It is just a baby step in that direction which I and others must follow.

In a profoundly written book review by Cristina Nehring appearing in New York Magazine, just as this book was going to press, I uncovered a deep meaning for the union between life and death, why we seek to continue our connection to the dearly departed and why we even seek to join them in whatever place they have gone. The empathy, sympathy and love which we feel can then, if we let it, give us more exuberance in our own lives. In reviewing Meghan O’Rourke’s book: The Long Goodbye (Riverhead, $25.95) Nehring wrote:

"For death is not merely a scourge and scoundrel; he’s a teacher. For centuries he has taught poets and peasants alike to ‘seize thee’, as the phrase goes: to live more gratefully, generously, vocally, and urgently. Death teaches us to write love letters to absent parents, like O’Rourke or to absent daughters and husbands, like Joan Didion, whose surprising work, The Year of Magical Thinking (2005); inaugurated this current movement of end-of-life memoirs. If we’re lucky, death even teaches us to write love poetry while those we cherish are still at our sides." See, The End-Of-Life Memoir, Why Thinking About Death Isn’t Morbid At All. New York Magazine, May 9, 2011 at 104 and 109.

In a recent letter to me after reviewing a draft of this book the Most Reverend Timothy M. Dolan, Archbishop of New York wrote:

Thank you most sincerely for your letter of April 29, 2011, together with the enclosed portion of your book, The Secret Adoption. Your thoughtfulness is deeply appreciated.

While I enjoyed reading about your parents, it is not our practice [sic] to comment on or provide quotes for books that are not theological in nature, as I trust you will understand. I should add that some statements, particularly those concerning euthanasia/assisted suicide and heaven and hell, are not in accord with Church teachings. With prayerful best wishes for a blessed Easter season, I am,

Faithfully in Christ,

/S/

Suffice to say that a letter from the venerated Archbishop of New York gives me pause to reflect on my upbringing as a Roman Catholic; my respect for all who believe or cherish their faith; the constraints, guilt and fear that I have felt during my lifetime in questioning and in some cases rejecting the teachings of Roman Catholicism. I have admired the Church’s opposition to the death penalty and its missionary work for the poor but resented its characterization of sin and sinners. My own sense of forgiveness tells me that it need not come from a confessional where penance is imposed. In our hearts and minds we have already imposed penalties against ourselves which last a lifetime in our consciences notwithstanding a soothsayer priest’s absolution. This book is a breakout piece which rejects the rigidity of any faith or belief. It is not on rejection of any faith or those who believe. On the contrary, this book is written in praise of them. I can understand but will never accept how the church would accuse women who have undergone abortions of having committed mortal sins and murders. The lifelong emotional pain that a woman bears for making that decision then is exacerbated by the Church and its teachings.

Acknowledgments

Writing this book has been a much needed catharsis for me. It displaced my sorrow, transposing the loss I felt to a recognition of the meaning that I might derive from the lives of two people ostensibly, outwardly mainstream and average, yet inwardly extraordinary people. It has also allowed me to understand that while seemingly ordinary people who just go about their business each day while not celebrities, often have an inner strength that is remarkable, not flashy, but poignant for their acceptance of life as it is. Their steadfast adherence to moral, ethical and religious values allows them to stay the course in their own lives, but also to serve as a rock, an example, a firm foundation for others.

In my case just as I was feeling the loss of my parents, my tears were stopped by those friends and family who came forward to extend their condolences. What I saw in their words, their faces and actions is that they felt what I felt, they had been through it. We were identifying with each other, like brothers and sisters. They, collectively and individually, became surrogate parents, extended family, filling a void left by my parents’ deaths.

Their deaths and the resurgence that I felt from those around me opened my eyes to seeing the worth in others, to how important we are to each other. It also allowed me to see the greater meaning in their lives and my own. What I felt at the end of their lives gave me an influx of new ideas, instilled in me stronger beliefs in the human potential, how each of us must strive to be role models for others and to take whatever our talents maybe to use and realize them so that others may do so. It also gave me a belief in positive thinking, keeping my dreams and those of others alive. I do that each day with my children, wife, co-workers and anyone with whom I come in contact. I go to more wakes and send notes of sympathy to others because I realize how much that meant to me and does to others. Much of my effort today is spent telling and showing people how very special they are.

Discovering who we are and what we might become is the legacy we leave. A potential unrealized is also a legacy. The support which I received at the time of my parents’ deaths has given me renewed strength to face down fear, to overcome it. We share common experiences, foibles and mistakes, but we must recognize them, learn from them, in a sense obtain an inner redemption for those errors and forgive others for their misdeeds.

My daughter Francesca gave me a book during 2008. It was a troubling time in my life, when I had to truly grapple with life’s meaning. I glimpsed my own mortality. It was a book by Brian Weiss, M.D. about reincarnation therapy. While I am not necessarily a believer, I am not a disbeliever. Some would say that this makes me agnostic. I do not like that term. It sounds negative to me. I have been an Ethical Humanist so I believe in people, but I also respect and believe in them spiritually and in their inner strength. It has taken me a lifetime to fully appreciate others. I do not do so in desperation or in the depths of sorrow. I have spent a lifetime observing others, often bewildered by their faith and homage to gods and icons. Yet, it is too enduring and too powerful to ignore. The spirituality and energy of each of us should give us hope in what may follow this life. There is great pleasure in this recognition. This book is my acknowledgment of those who have helped me to realize, to believe in them, to believe in myself, to believe in us. Thank you.

Specifically I want to acknowledge all who expressed their sympathies to me and who, without knowing it, encouraged me to write this book. In particular, I want to thank my wife, Wendy and three children, Louis, Carole and Francesca; the Maria SS Dell’Assunta Society of Westbury, a religious and philanthropic organization; the Knights of Columbus of Westbury; the United States Army; Debora Pitman; Father Ralph from St. Brigid’s Church of Westbury; my entire office staff; Joan and Paul Echausse; Mary Giordano, Esq.; Joan and Larry Boes; Maryann and Mayor Ernest Strada; my aunt, Carol Melzig and my cousin, Geralyn Volpe. I must also thank Maria Albano, my former secretary, for typing this manuscript and Rosemary Ellerby, my co-worker who painstakingly put the finishing touches on this book from formatting to spell checking and everything else that goes with completing a project of this enormity. A special thank you to Rosemary because without her diligence, this work would not have happened.

It also goes almost without saying it, but I do believe that they deserve credit for their actions. I write of adoptive parents everywhere, both celebrities and those less known, for their valiant efforts to make the world a better place by adopting children, many who might otherwise be destined to lead miserable lives. For rescue parents who may not have realized such grandiose accomplishments and simply acted out of love or for other reasons, I thank you on behalf of all adopted children and to those of us who are adopted, we share a special bond that makes us, in a sense, brothers and sisters. I share with you and we share with each other our loneliness, our separation, our identities, our independence, our courage and our connectedness to each other through love and understanding. We more than others, must realize that we are each other’s keepers. My thoughts are with all of you.

Chapter I

Finding a Home

In 2002, my dad, Louis Joseph Liotti, was 85 and my mother, Eileen Frances Liotti, was 82. Eight years before that my dad had triple bypass surgery, and one year before that, in 2001, mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. They had lived in the same split-level house in Westbury, Long Island for forty-two years. Mom was having increasing difficulty cleaning it and dad was having a hard time just navigating the stairs.

Dad had been a contract negotiator for Western Electric Company, and prior to that President of the Communication Workers of America (CWA), the Office Workers Local in Manhattan. For twenty years, mom was a keypunch operator for Nassau County and later, a recorder of deeds. In her youth she was a model. They retired together in 1982 and went on one major trip. It was a two week trip to Italy with Perillo Tours. I felt guilty about that because when I went to Italy with my wife in 1983, we stayed at the finest hotels and resorts including Villa d’ Este, the former Cardinal’s home on Lake Como just outside of Milan. Indeed, I played on the same tennis court used by the Pope just a week before, next to the border of Switzerland. I went to La Scalla to see a German opera and ate Osso Bucco, Caruso’s favorite meal, at his favorite restaurant and sat at his table. I saw The Last Supper painting which was being restored, hanging at the back of an old church. No security, just hanging there. I had lunch at the Hotel Cipriani in Venice and we finished our stay at San Pietro in Positano, the world-famous resort built on the side of the Amalfi coast, on which I drove my own car, a Lancha. The beach consisted of a massive piece of rock perhaps one hundred yards long with the upper portion blown out to create a massive granite-looking-type slab of flat rock and the feeling that you are in a cave with the sun shining on you, with the Island of Capri off the coast. It was in San Pietro that I read in the hotel log book: Living well is the best revenge.

My wife Wendy and I had a small house about a mile west from my parents, also in the Village of Westbury. We have three children and all were living with us at the time. In 2002, our twins, Louis and Carole, were seventeen and Francesca, our youngest daughter, was thirteen.

After some careful planning we agreed with my parents that they would sell their home and use the money from the proceeds of the sale of their home to renovate our home to accommodate their moving in with us. Selling a home that they had lived in for over forty-two years was heartbreaking for them and for me. I had lived in that house with them for sixteen years, not leaving until 1977 when I was thirty and had just gotten married.

My parents married in 1941 and dated for five years before that. My dad went off to war in Europe. He was an infantryman, a corporal in the U.S. Army and participated in the invasion of France. He never talked about his many friends who died during the war, except to say that he made God a promise while he was there. He promised that if his life were spared he would pray everyday. He did say his prayers everyday. He said the rosary at least once a day, he became a daily communicant and an usher in his church, St. Brigid’s of Westbury. He was a member of the Knights of Columbus and the Holy Name Society.

I can remember when my dad and I went to see the movie, Saving Private Ryan. At one point in the movie I looked at my father and noticed that he was crying. I told him to Take it easy, it’s okay, but he did not stop for awhile. As people get older they often become more emotional, nostalgic and cry a lot. My father also spoke of having to return home on an emergency leave to tend to my mother who had miscarried. Thereafter this happened a few more times to my mom, at least three times and possibly as much as seven. Years later when I was nine or ten, my father told me about the miscarriages and I cried over the brothers and sisters I would never know.

One can only imagine how devastating this must have been for both my parents in that era. Reproduction was a cultural and religious mandate. When my dad learned of my mother’s miscarriage he made special arrangements to return home on military leave. At the time, if a woman could not have a child, her friends, family and neighbors questioned her entire worth or value to society. Feelings of remorse and depression might ensue. I do not know if that ever happened to my mother, she was an optimist by nature. My father was totally supportive of her even when faced with the fact that he might not ever have a child of his own. They never thought of divorce. They believed in their marital vows of love, honor and obey, in sickness and in health. The obey part was also never an issue. I never saw my father or mother order one another and I can recall no serious arguments between them. They certainly had some financial issues, but their love for each other was an enduring commitment. If you are blessed by being able to love another in your lifetime and, if you have that love returned, then all else is secondary. Next to faith, to love and to be loved is the most compelling life experience. In that respect, they were so lucky.

From the man’s standpoint, his virility might be questioned by himself. The loss of self esteem for each could be overpowering, deflating all other emotions. Only the very strong can survive and remain together. Louis and Eileen stayed together until their deaths in 2008. Love overcame all other emotions. They lived up to their marital vows and then some. The natural fears of not having a place in history or a legacy, were annihilated by their faith and love.

After the war my parents moved to a one room apartment in Brooklyn on Martense Street. I was born on May 29, 1947. My dad went to work for AT&T and my mom stayed at home. My dad became involved in the union movement during its bare knuckle days. He became friendly with Alex Rose of the Ladies’ Garment Workers Union and United States Senator Robert Wagner, Sr. after successfully negotiating contracts for his fellow employees, he went to work for Western Electric Company as a contract negotiator predominantly with the Department of Defense. He had top security clearance.

During and following the war my mother, of Scotch-Irish decent, became a model. She did that until my parents moved to a Levitt home in 1951, settling into a home in the Salisbury section of Westbury. They bought the home for $7,999.00 on the G.I. Bill, which provided for low interest mortgages. It had four rooms, no basement, an unfinished attic and a carport. It was a wood frame house, no bricks, with radiant floor heating. A main selling point was that each home came with a television. (black and white, of course). That cost an extra one hundred dollars. Milton Berle, I Love Lucy, Ozzie & Harriet and Abbott and Costello were some of the early television shows available, together with Amos and Andy as well as reruns of Laurel & Hardy. The Million Dollar movie on Channel 9 also made its debut. We watched them like a religious rite together with Channel 11, the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Yankees and on occasion, the New York Giants (if Willie Mays was playing centerfield, we might catch a glimpse of one of his spectacular catches). I can still hear the announcer, Mel Allen’s voice. It was mainstream America, the suburbs, a new term that became a part of our national lexicon.

Much of Long Island, or at least the central part of it, had been potato fields which, developer Bill Levitt purchased just after the war in the late 1940’s. Nassau is one of sixty two counties in New York State. The name has a German derivation. It is the first County east of Queens County and the City of New York. It is a mere sixteen miles long and the same distance wide. After the war and for the rest of the twentieth century it was predominantly Republican with a population of nearly one and one-half million at the century’s end. Fifty years after his acquisition, Levitt died a broken and poor man, but back then his vision brought people from the City to affordable housing on Long Island. Instead of a one room apartment, my parents now had a home, an investment. Of course the returning G.I.’s were not sure if these homes would hold up against hurricanes and the like, but they have. They are still there, built up and out, many now resembling small mansions still on plots of about sixty by one hundred feet.

While millions were moving out of the City, Robert Moses³, the master planner, was complimenting Levitt’s ideas with those of his own. He had already developed Jones Beach with appurtenant access roads. Many of his tunnels and bridges were also completed by then. The middle class joined the super wealthy who had already built their massive estates on the Gold Coast, the north shore of Long Island. Northern State Parkway became a main access road for trips to and from Long Island. The Long Island Expressway (L.I.E.) also known as the largest parking lot in the world, came into existence in the early 1950’s.

Life was good. Many of the ex-G.I.’s secured jobs in Long Island’s defense industry including Grumman Corporation, Sperry, and others. Still others kept their jobs in the City and commuted on the Long Island Railroad each day. My dad had a gray Plymouth which he would drive to the Westbury railroad station, take the train to Jamaica and then to Penn Station at 34th Street and Seventh Avenue. From there he would take the subway downtown. He did that everyday, five days a week until he retired, more than thirty years later. Occasionally when the train fare became too expensive, he would drive to Queens and take a subway from there. The whole train trip would take one and a half hours each way. The trains were dangerous and overcrowded, running on diesel fuel and billowing huge clouds of smoke into the air. Even then, the pollution seemed unfathomable to me.

For the white G.I.’s, a Levitt home was a good bet. We had no Hispanics or Asians or African Americans in the neighborhood. By the century’s end the demographics showed twenty eight percent to be Italian American; nineteen percent Irish Catholic; eleven percent Jewish and nine percent African American and other minority groups. The Hispanic population grew but much of it was still undocumented. Levitt built schools, miniature shopping malls which usually consisted of a grocery store, a five and dime with a luncheonette and a hardware store. He also built outdoor swimming pools, schools and baseball fields.

My father got to work almost immediately. He turned our carport into a garage using a broken hand saw, used lumber and a borrowed hammer. He did the same thing in the backyard when he put up a fence, mixing and pouring his own cement for the posts. He laid a brick patio and built a porch over it. He never had any engineering, architectural, or carpentry training.

The backyard soon became a home for our first pet, a boxer puppy we named Duke. He was the first of many boxers which we owned and later showed in local dog shows around New York, not including Westminster. Duke was friendly and loving toward me. We would play in the backyard. He would run at me and knock me down. Then he would bite the cuffs of my pants and drag me around the backyard. I loved it. We were pals and I would fall asleep in front of the television with my head on Duke’s back or with him at the foot of my bed. He was a very strong animal, living for thirteen years, a long time for a boxer at that time. Using the times seven formulae for determining the duration of a dog’s life, that was ninety-one years. Duke was fairly docile unless he thought that you were going to harm me or my mother. My father used to play a game with him where he would raise his hand pretending to strike me. Duke would come over and bite down on his forearm. Not hard, but just enough to stop my father by his grip.

The mailman and milkman also had their problems with Duke. Boxers have very strong hind legs and jump straight up nine or ten feet. The mail would be pushed through the mail slot and it was always a race to get there before Duke, lest your mail would be